An advance look at my weekend.

An advance look at my weekend.

David Sedaris Tonight.

18 miles tomorrow.

And that's all I can really wrap my brain around right now.

Practice what you preach.

Practice what you preach.

This morning, Henry The Acupuncturist called me to cancel my appointment today because he felt a cold coming on. My first thought was "aren't there needles for that?"

I'm thinking I need to do a little more work on opening my mind.

Pins and needles.

Pins and needles.

Tomorrow, I'm going to see Henry, a acupuncturist/nutritionist/chinese herbalist. It was kind of a reference through a friend, my aesthetician, through another client. I did a little research, and sometimes they use NEEDLES IN YOUR EARS. The fancy, less frightening term for this is "auricular acupuncture."

Anyway, I'm going to give it a stab.

I'm pretty much on board with both the modern and ancient justifications for acupuncture, but I mostly just can't wait to meet Henry, who the referrer called "her therapist." I'm hoping he'll become my new best friend. My new best friend WITH NEEDLES.

Sometimes there are so many things to post about that I just end up not posting.

Sometimes there are so many things to post about that I just end up not posting.

Because I can't cover them all in one coherent set of paragraphs.

Okay, here's one. My friend's baby (not Natalie, but the sweet baby Evan) was really, critically ill last week. Sick like rushed to the hospital sick. Seizures sick. Paralysis sick. Bleeding in the brain sick. Viral Encephalitis sick. 75% fatality sick.

She, miraculously, got better. Much of it can be chalked up to a mother's instinct knowing something was wrong, but I can't help believing that there's some design here. There's a reason a mother was alarmed when her three week old baby wouldn't nurse right or wouldn't fully arouse from sleep, things that could be seen as just flu or bug things, or perhaps even just normal newborn finickitiness. There's a reason they were on the way to the ER already when she had her first seizure. There's a reason she had the right doctors at the right times doing the right tests and giving her the right medications.

Sweet baby Evan is on her way home this afternoon. She's not better yet, but is well on the way. She's regaining movement and strength in her right side.

Today I feel a little bit like Hannah in last night's episode of Everwood, NOT THAT I WATCH THAT SHOW OR ANYTHING. I remember thinking that I hadn't heard anything about Evan in a week or so, and thinking about how it would be really, really tough for me to be happy with God if Evan didn't survive. Without really being conscious of it, I pretty much struck a deal with God. Like, an "if X happens, then you're on thin ice, God" deal. I've never had a thought like that. Even knowing relatively young people who were on their death beds, I always had something of a sense of calm about me, knowing that God had things in mind for these people and blah blah blah, something about it being "their time" blah blah blah. Not with Evan. Not with a three week old baby.

So, WB-Drama-Hannah's dad was sick with a genetic disorder. As a little girl, she prayed to God to make him better and if so she'd eat her vegetables. She realized that even though her dad did not get better, she was saved from inheriting the disease, and she thinks that was how God helped her. So, she felt totally indebted to God, like she needed to do something (other than eating a decade's worth of vegetables). Some wise and cute geeky boy told her that just by being herself, her perfect self, was thanks enough for God. Then they decided to go on a date and had some cute and snorty nervous geek laughter.

I don't know what to do. I feel a little sheepish, having threatened God and what have you. I'm already eating plenty of vegetables, so I can't exactly do that. I just have to be myself and be thankful.

Fruit, though. I don't eat enough fruit. Yes, that's what I can do.

Don't bite the hand that gives you sinews.

Don't bite the hand that gives you sinews.

Last night, after a day of the unhappy skin on my face feeling alternatively sunburned and teenagerly and old womanly, I realized I had the hiccups as I was climbing into bed. Hiccups, strangely enough, are an evil forbearer of bad womanly news in our house. I lamented this observation out loud to Erik. "Fuck. Hiccups. If this means I'm getting my period again already, I'm filing a complaint about my body. With... God."

I could fill a list a mile long about the things I'm legitimately unhappy with about my body. I'm not being a picky perfectionist here; I really did draw the short straw with some things. Recent, ridiculous, and mysterious breakouts, menstrual cramps that literally stop me in my tracks, a three-week frequency of said cramps (rrrr), feet that swell up and cramp up after long days or any semblance of road or air travel, and that scar on my collar bone that came from nowhere. And It always takes forever to bring me to orgasm. Oh, and that forsaken toenail that's been half-off since August, with no sign of coming off completely, and no sign of feeling better.

But the moment I said I wanted to file a complaint with God, I could hear the gravity and ungratefulness of my words. Heads turned, cars swerved and crashed, children stopped their crying, birds fell from the sky, old ladies gasped and exchanged suspicious glances with their widowy friends, and, as onechildleftbehind once said, needles ripped across records with all the accompanying screeching noises and we all peered upwards at the anvil of jinxness dangling lithely and tauntingly above my head. It was like asking to get some sort of serious debilitation or lose a limb or something, God chuckling a little and saying, "Dude, I'll give you something to file a complaint about."

I realized just how fortunate I am. My body is pretty phenomenal - carrying me 17 odd miles on foot in a relatively short amount of time, something I never imagined it doing. And then there's the amusing arrangement of freckles and sunspots on my arms that provide endless distraction for me during meetings or lectures, sitting and counting them or figuratively connecting them. I digress. Whatever minor complaints I have about other things, I honestly am thankful for the hand I was dealt. The bones and sinews (that word is so biblical) inside of me and the skin wrapped around me are serving me well, very well.

I'm also kind of hoping this newfound contentment with the cramps and the evil skin will make them go away due to positive energy forces and inner chi or some holistic sinewy shit.

Wanted: Personal Shopper, and/or Napkin Rings.

Wanted: Personal Shopper, and/or Napkin Rings.

I'm redecorating my dining room. I'm too lazy to paint, and we just got a new pretty dining table last year, and the artwork is all original shit by me and our insanely creative friends that I won't ever replace, so this basically means I bought new placemats.

Technically, I bought new vases too. I was on a pink-fix this last weekend, and decided to splurge. I've been getting sick of the sage-green-washed walls, and remembered how much I loved the pink accents I used in a party last fall. Sadly, pink things aren't as easy to find as you'd think. Most things go too far and have all bright colors at once. No dude. Just pale pinks and medium pinks and preferably, one at a time.

Now that I finished shopping, it doesn't feel right. I think it needs a little more pink - maybe some napkin rings. I only have red silk flower napkin rings, so those had to be put away. I could also go with pink napkins, and a silverish napkin ring. Eh? Also keep in mind that I'm useless at keeping fresh flowers around, so the white touches from the flowers will soon be gone. Actually, brown, then gone. The flowers shown below will soon go bad, and then go very bad, and I'll probably leave them there just a little bit past very bad. Then, the vases will remain empty for months on end until I repeat the ugly cycle with some more ill-fated fresh flowers.

Regardless, please find me some napkin rings. I need a little more pink in my life. Also, the candlesticks are being nixed. They're a little too much.





Any tips, links, leads, suggestions will be much appreciated. Why, thank you.

Believe me, Natalie.

Believe me, Natalie.

Sarah and Scott had a little baby girl Saturday morning and her name is Natalie. Well, relatively not-so-little, weighing in at a whopping 9lb 11oz. We went to see them Saturday evening, and everything about her is so perfect and soft. She smells so good already. I want to know what kind of soap they use in the labor wards.

We sat on the bed with them in the birth center, holding this tiny person and singing The Killers' slightly nonsensical namesake song over and over in my head ("this is your last chance to find a go-go dance to disco now..."). The moment had all the elements of WE MUST BREED NOW with the dim lighting, peaceful ambience, glowingly exhausted parents, and a tiny little baby in my arms, sticking her tongue out and half-opening her eyes. Every time I've visited a friend who had a newborn, their houses all seemed so quiet and peaceful, with hushed voices, soft lights, pretty baby things everywhere and that baby skin smell. Oh, that smell.

Their delivery midwife came in to check on them, and Sarah introduced us to her. She asked us if we had any kids of our own, and after we said no, Sarah said, "just ours."

I know I'm far from being a parent, and far from being a member of their blood-family, but I've never really felt such a perfection and familial happiness as I did while sitting in that room with them. And it didn't hurt to be cradling a perfect gorgeous baby in my arms. I keep thinking about her perfect little face and how her whole life is ahead of her, the ups, the downs, the inbetweens. And unlike the Killers song, this is totally not her last chance for go-go dancing or anything. I can't wait to watch her life unfold ahead of her. Believe me, Natalie.

Then, we spent the night at their house watching sweet big-sisterly Grace (while they were all still in the hospital) and woke up at 6am and had to be on playing and entertaining and making breakfast. It's one thing to wake up at 6 and shuffle through the day, but dude. I had to take an early morning nap. While it was amazing hanging out with Gracie for so long, it was also kind of a MAYBE WE MUST NOT BREED NOW moment.

Good thing we have Grace and Natalie, then.

While driving home.

While driving home.

"Dude, I know it's 9:25 already, but can you tape the last half of Alias for us? I totally forgot."
"I guess. But I'm taping this documentary on Nazi Germany right now. Do you want me to interupt that?"
"Well, when you put it that way..."
"No, I'll interupt it."
"Well, okay. Maybe."
"Did you make out during Schindler's List?"
"What?!"
"It's a Seinfeld episode. They were talking about making out in the theater while watching Schindler's List."
"Shut up! That's wrong. And awesome."

[pause]

"Okay, don't tape Alias."
"Fine."

[pause]

"I've never seen Schindler's List, actually."
"Me neither."
"We should totally watch it sometime."

[pause]

"And make out."

Accentuate.

Accentuate.

In mixed company, that is, my English family and my American friends, I choose my words carefully, much like the young speech impedimented David Sedaris in "Me Talk Pretty One Day" avoided his telltale consonants. I steer clear of words that make me sound either distinctly English or distinctly American, because for some reason I honestly can't define, I’m not sure which I am.

She always was the tall and skinny one.

She always was the tall and skinny one.

My love for Napoleon Dynamite quotes aside, another reason for changing my banner this month was in homage to my sister. She got married this weekend, and I thought the picture of us fighting was totally appropriate to celebrate this occasion.

I'm sure more pictures will trickle in as everyone starts to upload (OH MY GOD THERE WERE SO MANY FREAKING DIGITAL CAMERAS), but I present to you a brief photo essay. And I also present to you my need to cut my hair.

Once upon a time, there was an older taller skinnier sister and a younger shorter sister with a bell-ay (which she has grown to love):



One day, Julia looked cuter than Gillian and a camera happened to capture this rare event, so that picture is her favorite of all childhood pictures ever. Sisterhood is totally a competitive sport.



The girls had a magical childhood in a lovely place (with a convenient photographer-dad).



And when their baby brother was born, he didn't cause too much damage and just ended up being one of the girls with his very own My Little Pony and total agreement to play house with his legos, instead of building the cars/spaceships/etc that the boxes instructed him to build. Future effects of this on the brother are yet to be noted.



Then, they grew up and went to high school where they actually went entire days without talking. Including when they shared a room. Yeah, no pictures of those happy times.

Then, they go and get all married and crap.





And one of them gets very drunk and ignores her body saying "dude, back off. I ran 14 miles for you this morning and all I get is a few vegetables, some bread, tequila shots, and hours straight standing around in high heels?" Note the happy-tired face.



One sister got to go to Jamaica, and the one with the belly got to go to work. The end.

Cheaper than buying it.

Cheaper than buying it.

I saw this t-shirt about a month ago at Urban Outfitters while on one of our dorky evenings downtown. I say dorky, because we'll slowly walk around the Gaslamp area, weaving amongst all the pretty sparkly people dressed to go out and striding with poise and purpose, but then we'll just duck into coffee shops, bookstores, or Urban Outfitters and not have to worry about what to do with our coats/purses/money. Sometimes we'll say, "oh, we went downtown last night," and then people instantly think we're still hip and energetic and nightlife-y, but technically, we just spent two hours in separate aisles at Borders.

But I tried this t-shirt on and fell deeply in love. Knowing I would never have any opportunity appropriate for this type of attire, I present to you the alternative:



I should also note that the last time I was remotely crunked or drank much more than a glass of wine, I think I was with my parents. And, remember, they never call me anymore, so it's clearly been a while.

The theme of this post is being a poser. And maybe a little bit being cheap.

Vesparanza.

Vesparanza.

Sunday night, as Erik and I were weaving around middletown trying to get to the highway from the airport, we passed a bar called the Aero Club. It's nestled on a frontage road, and looks highly decrepit. We often make fun of the joint.

I said, "Want to go to the Aero Club?"
To which Erik responded, "No way. We're not indie enough to go there."

I honestly would have never imagined the Aero Club elevating from dive bar to indie-dive bar, so I didn't believe him. I retorted, "We're totally indie enough!" Then I glanced down at his man-sandals and our bourgeouis Prius.

"We need a Vespa to go there," Erik said with an evil un-indie grin on his face.

I then realized that we had probably had this very same conversation about the Aero Club the last time we were driving on these roads. That day, the few parking spots out front had been crowded with what looked like 20 Vespas. A pod/school/coven/swarm of Vespas, if you will. I'd say that's a telltale sign that your regular-dive dive bar has jumped the shark into the depths of the indie-dive dive bar world.

Home and Dry.

Home and dry.

I'm back on the left and feeling slightly warmer, and much sleepier. It's a tough gig combining jet lag with a time difference, daylight savings, and not really sleeping all that much anyway due to good times.

We stayed at a beautiful, beautiful camp nestled upon the banks of a massive lake, which was mostly frozen. I have never before beholden a sight like a completely frozen lake. Beautiful. I'd tell you which lake it was, but then you might know which camp it was, and then you'd tell them that late one night, we smuggled a flask of banana liquor into the church camp dining hall and mixed it with Generic Camp Punch.

Sunday morning, I tried to run a little in the pouring rain just outside our airport hotel on the runway of the Syracuse airport. I could really only figure out a 3/4 mile loop, so I just kept running that, over and over again. The rain was heavy and freezing cold. Combined with the utter boredom at running such an unscenic and redundant route alone, I was completely out of it. I kept my mind busy trying to avoid the prolific worm population with my feet.

At the unnamed alcohol-forbidden camp on the unnamed mostly-frozen lake:


I was very pleased to tick off another state on my List Of States Visited Not Counting Airports with such hilarious, wonderful people and gorgeous, winterous landscape. But then Erik picked me up from the airport in shorts and sandals and I was equally pleased to be home.